


Talk About It

by prototype_malice



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Author is not Christian, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Gen, House-centric, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, John House's A+ Parenting, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, and may have fudged it on the catholicism a little, john house choke and die challenge, not as bad as the tags make it seem but it's better to over-warn than under-warn, not explicit but it's definitely there have you met the guy, this may be my coping mechanism but I'm still responsible for the consequences of it, warning the shit out of this so y'all can stay safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27241438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prototype_malice/pseuds/prototype_malice
Summary: Snapshots of House's life during the following episodes, for which there will be spoilers:- 1x13 "Cursed"- 2x04 "Daddy's Boy"- 2x13 "Skin Deep"- 3x12 "One Day, One Room"- 5x04 "Birthmarks"- 6x01 "Broken"There are no spoilers for any other episodes, but this fic will contain mention, reference, and discussion of CSA. Stay safe.
Relationships: Eric Foreman & Greg House, Greg House & James Wilson, Lisa Cuddy & Greg House, Robert Chase & Greg House, greg house/james wilson if you squint
Comments: 15
Kudos: 51





	Talk About It

**Author's Note:**

> My *checks notes* 14-page fic about me projecting onto House. WIld how productivity happens.
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS: CSA (child sexual abuse), incest, r*pe, child abuse, childhood trauma. Please stay safe; do not read if this content may be upsetting for you.

——— 5x04 “Birthmarks” ———

House will never be quite sure what compels him to linger at the reception after the funeral, step into the church with a withering glare at the corpse of his, well, non-sperm donor. It doesn’t sound as much like an insult as he wants, and the guy in the casket refuses to wither, so his steps echo as if in mockery of organized religion as he steps into the confession booth and sits down.

“Good evening,” the priest greets him.

“There’s still daylight left. Bless me father, for I have sinned. It’s been, uh,” House counted on his fingers for a moment. “Thirty-five years since my last confession.”

“Wow,” the priest says.

“Wow? That’s not very priestly of you.”

“Sorry. Continue.”

“Thanks. Where were we? Thirty-five years, I accuse myself of all the following sins.”

House pauses, mouth open. He closes it for a few moments before he speaks.

“I should just start with the big ones, or we’ll be here all night. Haven’t had any other gods, no idols, but I’ve broken all the other commandments. Lots of lying, job doesn’t really let me off for the Sabbath, adultery, coveting, the murder was only technically a murder and the guy wanted it, and I’m still short a few sins. Oh, yeah, disrespecting my father. And probably my mother. I think I’ve disrespected everyone’s parents at this point.”

“But you showed up to your father’s funeral.”

House gave the screen a quizzical look.

“Cane on marble floors. And I can hear Susan and her girlfriends gossiping in the corner.”

“Ever considered being a detective, Father? Something a little more useful?”

“If I’m not doing anything useful, why are you here?”

“I’ll go, then.”

House made no move to actually leave.

“So why did you come to his funeral if you dislike him so much?”

“My, uh, friend roofied and kidnapped me to bring me here. We even got arrested a couple states ago and the idiot let us go so I could come to the all-important funeral.”

“What did he do?”

“Slipped it in my coffee, the bastard.”

“Your father.”

“Mm, turns out he’s not my father. Guessed it way back when, but a little testing confirmed he didn’t even give me his crappy DNA.”

“You don’t dislike him because he wasn’t your biological father.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No, I  _ hate _ him because he spent the first eighteen years of my life beating me, among other things.”

The priest fell silent for a few moments.

“Why don’t you tell me about your mother?”

“What are you, a shrink?”

“I have a BA in behavioral psychology.”

“Nice.”

House shifted a bit, switching his cane between his hands in the dim light of the confessional booth.

“The day I turned eighteen, I left. My dad and her. Moved across the country, spent a couple months couch-hopping with people I barely knew and managed to find a reasonably terrible roommate who would let me stay on his couch for however long I wanted without trying to help me about it. My mom called once a day, every day, for ten years before I answered.”

“What did she do?”

“Nothing. Just reminded me of him. And, as you may have heard from Susan and her gaggle of gossipers, I’m kind of an asshole.”

The priest didn’t comment on his language.

“There you have it, all kinds of disrespecting my parents. And that’s just after God started trying me as an adult. I did plenty of other stuff before I was eighteen. Lots of name-calling.”

The priest sighed, low and deep.

“I’m getting the sense there’s something you don’t want to tell me. Don’t be afraid, doctor. There is no true judgement but the Lord’s.”

“But there’s a hell of a rumor mill in this church, if I recall.”

“Do I look like a Susan to you?”

“Hard to see you through the screen.”

“Don’t be afraid. The Lord is with you, not above you.”

House remained silent.

“And if that doesn’t help, I’m legally bound to secrecy about everything you tell me.”

“I can’t,” House said, this voice crack frighteningly more real than the one during the eulogy.

“Then find your friend and go home.”

“Not going to quote me a verse and tell me to repent?”

“Sometimes the things we feel guilty for aren’t things we’re guilty of.”

House had nothing to say to that.

“Go home, order takeout, and spend some time with the family you’ve chosen. If you want to repent about anything, I heard something about a murder earlier.”

“Technicality,” House muttered. “Thanks, Father.”

“Peace be with you.”

House was halfway out the doorway of the church when he turned back, murmuring, “And also with you, Father.”

Neither the priest nor John House’s body said anything, so he turned around and kept walking.

——— 2x13 “Skin Deep” ———

“I had a funny uncle,” House jokes.

Foreman, of course, could never take a joke. Something, something, caring about other people.

“You were abused?”

“What? No. Why would your mind go to that so fast? I just had a funny uncle. Great stories,” House rambled on.

Foreman just shook his head and got in the elevator, but he still pushed the “open door” button to make sure House didn’t get whacked by it, because he was a doormat. Or cared about other people. Whatever.

“I don’t have any uncles,” House shared as the elevator slowed, approaching their floor.

Foreman gave him a long, confused look. Mysterious and all-knowing reputation restored.

“What’s that even supposed to mean?”

“Everybody lies,” House said, truthfully, and got off the elevator.

——— 2x04 “Daddy’s Boy” ———

“You know what your problem is, Greg?” John asked over his crappy cafeteria meal.

Well, he was going to keep talking anyways. House had half a mind to tell the man to call him Dr. House instead of that.

“You just don’t know how lucky you are.”

House laughed, half in surprise, as his mother leapt halfheartedly to his defense. By the time he’d organized his thoughts into competing schools of “lucky?!” and “how dare you?” instead of outright throttling him, John had left the table, tossing his napkin in the trash on the way out.

Later, much later, after everything was solved and wrapped up in a neat little bow, after the patient died, House and Wilson were sitting at their kitchen counter, eating Chinese takeout and talking about nothing and everything, that sort of thing. It was so odd, saying it was theirs. That it belonged to both of them. House had gotten so used to living alone.

“So how’d that dinner with your parents go, anyways?” Wilson eventually meandered into.

“Why’s everyone my shrink all of a sudden?”

“I’m your friend. I care about you.”

There was no underlying jab at House for being an ass in that one. Interesting.

“Then stop asking about my parents.”

“Okay,” Wilson agreed, and changed the subject.

Later, again, on the couch in front of the TV, half watching whatever evening special for grown-ups who aren’t paying much attention and don’t want to be was on, half lost in thought, House finally opened up.

“He told me I don’t know how lucky I am.”

“And you didn’t punch him in the throat? I’m impressed.”

“The bastard walks too fast.”

Wilson patted his leg in an odd little comforting gesture. House didn’t know he needed comforting, but it was just Wilson, so he could cede a little there.

“How’s your mom?” Wilson observantly changed topics.

“Healthy. Full of judgement. Still has a bit of a superiority complex. Still gaslights better than a politician. Same old. How are your folks?”

“You don’t care how my family is, House.”

“Nope. Just don’t want to talk about mine anymore.”

“How’s your latest case going, then?”

Wilson was good like that. Wilson was safe. He understood.

——— 2x13 “Skin Deep” ———

“Do you know why you’re here?” Cuddy said, skipping the greeting. She never was one for formalities, not with him.

“Because I’ve been a bad boy and I need to be punished,” House replied easily, meandering around her office looking at the tchotchkes on the bookshelves.

“Why didn’t you call Child Services?”

“Because the guy kept providing useful information about my case and saving the patient.”

“You can’t just keep a rapist around in case he suddenly does something useful.”

House tried not to, but he flinched.

“For once, I thought you’d understand something that doesn’t affect you. Guess I was wrong.”

“Don’t.”

Cuddy didn’t say anything else, so he finally turned to face her.

“What?” House practically snapped.

“Who hurt you to make you this much of an asshole, House?”

“Jeez, take me out to dinner first, Doc.”

Cuddy crossed her arms and gave him a stern look.

“You’ve met my parents. Who do you think?”

“Different question, then. Why have you been even more of an ass this entire case?”

“I love to keep people in suspense.”

Cuddy sighed and didn’t say anything else. House took that as his cue to leave.

——— 3x12 “One Day, One Room” ———

House burst into Cuddy’s office with no preamble, for once glad he wasn’t interrupting anything. This was, and not just because of confidentiality laws, something better discussed alone.

“I need someone to cover a patient.”

“House-” she trailed off, looking him over.

“She was raped.”

Cuddy just stared at him.

“Still think I’m the doctor for her?”

“I’ll page Dr. Stone.”

House’s hands were shaking. That was odd.

“House, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“I already know. You’re not going to scare me.”

“Boo,” House said weakly. “But I have several years of clinic duty to go make up.”

Cuddy made to get up, maybe even stop him.

House just shook his head and left.

——— 6x01 “Broken” ———

“Do you have third floor privileges?” House began, without any preamble.

“Ever since I shared in group about my uncle fondling me,” Alvie said easily.

House blinked a few times.

“Is that true?”

“Yeah,” Alvie said, passing the basketball between his hands, like they were talking about the weather, “And now I can use the third-floor vending machines.”

He went on about potato chips and the benefits and drawbacks of using powdery flavoring instead of actual dip, and House steered him somewhat successfully back on track.

After all their plans fell through, much later, in one of the group therapy sessions, House fidgeted in his seat, playing with the handle of his cane.

“House?” Dr. Beasley asked, pulling his attention back into the room.

“A building for human habitation- Oh, were you referring to me?”

“Is there something you’d like to share with the group?”

“Do most people eagerly jump on the chance to tell a bunch of strangers about all their childhood trauma, or is that just a Mayfield thing?”

“Do you want to talk about your childhood trauma?” Dr. Beasley asked, backing him nicely into a corner. At least she kept things interesting.

“Do you want to hear about it, or do you just want to diagnose me with ‘incurably insane’ so I have to stay here forever?”

“I’d like to hear about it.”

House was aware of the hypocrisy of changing his entire view on caring about patients only when he was the patient, but he started talking anyways.

——— 3x12 “One Day, One Room” ———

Foreman was the only one left in the diagnostic office as the sun disappeared under the horizon, finishing up what seemed like a particularly long and arduous file. That was unfair. He was the only helpful member of the Greek chorus that day, actually.

“You remember that case with the teenage supermodel?” House began, hobbling across the office towards the coffee machine.

“Missing the good old days?” Foreman snarked.

“Remember that joke I made on the way to the elevator that you completely misinterpreted?”

“That’s not how I remember that conversation happening, but sure.”

House was still facing the coffee machine, wiping his mug clean because yes, his trust issues did run that deep, but he heard the sounds of pen on paper stop.

“I didn’t have a funny uncle.”   
  


“I got that impression.”

“My dad was kind of iffy, though.”

And a hush fell over the crowd. House filled the silence by pouring his coffee and setting the pot down as loudly as possible.

“Did he-” Foreman began, but he stopped, unsure.

“Yep.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“Says the man who’s always going on about caring about other people.”

“No, I mean, you never tell any of us anything unless we absolutely have to know, and sometimes not even then.”

“Because you, unlike the rest of the Greek chorus, gave advice that didn’t completely suck.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“It still kind of sucked. Just not completely.”

Foreman sighed, and House could practically hear him rolling his eyes. He turned around, coffee poured, and yep, telltale signs. At least he had the decency to look guilty about being caught.

“You okay?” Foreman asked, after a few moments of growing increasingly uncomfortable as House stared him down.

“Woah, take me out to dinner first.”

Foreman didn’t bother pretending he wasn’t rolling his eyes this time, and House hobbled away.

——— 1x13 “Cursed” ———

“What did your dad do to piss you off so much?” House finally asked.

It was just him and Chase in the diagnostic office the day after the case, House staying late because his bike was getting repaired and Wilson was his ride and Chase the only lackey still working after sundown.

“Why do you care?”

“Because it’s affecting your ability to do your job. Don’t worry, I don’t care about your feelings.”

Chase crossed his arms and glared at him.

“So what did he do?” House probed.

“None of your business.”

“Did Cameron get it right? Did he hit you? Your mom? Your dog? Your sister? Himself?”

“Piss off, House,” Chase snapped, making to get up before House stuck his cane in the way and stopped him.

“No, you wouldn’t have gone out for drinks with him if he just hit you. You’d irreparably hate him if he hit you, because that wouldn’t be excusable for you. You’d go out for drinks with him if he just walked out on you, but then you wouldn’t be this pissed at him.”

“Don’t.”

“Emotional abuse, maybe. Manipulated you into thinking it was all your fault, wombat?”

“It was,” Chase practically whispered, voice wavering. It didn’t seem like he’d meant to say that out loud.

House softened, not that he’d admit it if anyone were to ask.

“So the other thing.”

Chase was looking at the carpet like it held the secrets of the universe.

“Yeah.”

The kid looked like a lost dog caught in the rain. House sighed, grumbled, and hobbled to his feet, hugging him before he started crying or something equally annoying.

Chase startled, but didn’t resist, eventually bringing his arms up to hug him back. Good thing no one else was around, it’d ruin his reputation forever.

“Me too,” House admitted, quietly enough that Chase might not have heard it at all. Maybe then he could pretend it was just a funny little story that someone told once, that it never happened at all. If he just tried hard enough.

The kid sniffled.

“Don’t cry on my shirt,” House admonished lightly, ruining the moment.

“Sorry,” Chase sniffled again, composing himself for a minute before letting go of House.

House looked him over.

“Go home, wombat.”

“Yeah, let me just finish-”

“Chase.”

The kid stopped like a deer in headlights, one hand on the file he’d left on the table.

“I’ll finish it. Go home.”

“Okay.”

Chase didn’t question his sudden kindness, but he did stop in the doorway, looking back.

“Thanks.”

“You, too.”

——— 5x04 “Birthmarks” ———

House was uncharacteristically quiet on the ride home. He was always being uncharacteristic, though, so it shouldn’t be that odd. It was. It was Wilson. He always noticed.

“You okay?” Wilson finally asked, handing him a plate of some fancy-looking pasta dish as he sat down next to him, propping his feet up on the coffee table and reaching for the remote. Had they been there long enough for him to make dinner already?

House didn’t have a great answer for that, so he just shrugged, taking a bite of his food. It was way too hot to eat. He set it down. Damn. A perfect strategy, ruined.

“House.”

“Why do people always want you to talk about it?”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Wilson asked slowly, like he was approaching a wounded animal. It wasn’t far off.

“Will it help?”

House didn’t like how small his own voice sounded.

Wilson set his plate down and scooted closer, tossing a blanket over the both of them. House leaned reluctantly into him, but he was comfortable and he wasn’t a complete tattletale.

“I don’t know,” Wilson admitted.

House closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, vaguely aware he was acting like a child but not particularly interested in doing anything about it.

“I hated him.”

Wilson didn’t speak, just rubbed circles onto his back, not making any efforts to meet his eyes. He was always doing nice things like that. Sap.

“He beat me. Started when I was eight, stopped when I moved out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I’m sorry I made you go to his funeral.”

“It’s fine. You didn’t know. Besides, now I know for sure. Doesn’t make what he did any less shitty, but I know.”

When had House started holding onto him like a lifeline in a storm? That wasn’t very aloof and mysterious of him. He’d have to make arrangements to be an ass tomorrow.

“It started with just hitting me once or twice. I talked back, he backhanded me. Everyone did it.”

Wilson didn’t say anything. Bastard.

“He got creative, eventually. He knew I didn’t care if he hit me, so he dunked me in a bath full of ice or made me sleep outside. Sometimes he just straight-up starved me.”

“House,” Wilson whispered, sounding far more hurt than he had any right to be. Empathetic, caring-about-other-people little shit.

“He didn’t talk to me the whole summer after I turned twelve. Didn’t mean I didn’t see him. Got quite enough of him, actually.”

House checked. Wilson looked distinctly horrified.

“My mom never found out. Not much point in telling her now.”

“Did he-”

“They have a nice little acronym for it now. CSA. So easy to say, isn’t it?”

Wilson looked like he had a lot he wanted to express, but not a lot to say.

“He’s dead,” House said to himself, almost reverently.

“He’s dead, House,” Wilson repeated. “You’re safe.”

Goddammit, he was crying. Disgusting.

“Shit, I’m getting your shirt wet,” House mumbled, pulling away.

Wilson stopped him, pulled him back in and hugged him properly. It was nice. He had such broad shoulders, such a warm, comfortable chest. It helped that House slouched enough he was the perfect height to bury his face in Wilson’s shirt and sob for a bit.

Eventually, Wilson pulled back, sticking the plate of pasta back in House’s face.

“L-word marathon?”

House probably looked like a hot mess, face red and tear-streaked and awful and his shirt a little wetter than he remembered.

“You know me so well.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comment moderation will be enabled on this fic, because I have trust issues. As a CSA survivor, this work was greatly cathartic for me. Please keep comments respectful -- no, I don't want to "talk about it". I'm aware of how hard I'm projecting onto my favorite characters, but hey, that's what fic is for. Thank you for reading, special thanks to anyone who leaves kudos and especially comments, they mean a lot to me. Feel free to come yell at me on my Tumblr, @capricornsicle. Peace.


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